


Love a London Boy

by oneoneandone



Series: Lover [2]
Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneoneandone/pseuds/oneoneandone
Summary: But something happened, I heard him laughingI saw the dimples first and then I heard the accentThey say home is where the heart isBut that's not where mine lives
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Series: Lover [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982191
Comments: 11
Kudos: 112





	1. Chapter 1

He’s so small when she holds him for the first time, his frail little body seemingly overwhelmed by the wires and tubes that are doing the work he’s not ready to be responsible for yet. Breathing and eating and regulating his own temperature. All the things that she’s taken for granted her whole life. 

Until this moment. Until this moment when it becomes clear how precarious human bodies really are, how fine the line between life and death can get. 

Still. 

All the worry and fear, all the prayers and bargains of the past twenty-four hours seem a price not too dear to pay if this is the return–her son settled into the crook of her arm, his mother safe and sleeping off the sedatives in the maternity ward just down the hall. 

“Happy birthday, Jonah,” she whispers into the tiny curve of his ear. “We’re so happy you’re here.”

—–

“Chelsea?” Christen asks as she sits down on the couch in their living room, the one they’d positioned to look out to the balcony, to the bay beyond. “What do you think, are you going to consider it?” 

Tobin reaches over from the other end to pull her wife’s swollen feet up and into her lap, thumbs massaging over the muscles there, smiling as the other woman let out a low moan. 

“I don’t know, honestly. Our agent said he’d forward the details of the offer to my email. I haven’t looked to see if it’s there yet.” Her fingers continue to work the sore points, though every now and again they trail up higher, teasing the younger woman lightly.

Chris laughs at her, lifting the mug of warm mint tea she’d had balanced on her belly so she won’t spill it as she shakes with amusement. 

“Tobin,” the pregnant woman says, eyes sparkling, “one of the top women’s clubs in England makes you an offer, and you don’t look at it immediately?” 

She’s still laughing as Tobin gives her a sheepish look and switches to her wife’s other foot, pleased to hear that moan again. 

“I wanted to tell you first.” 

—–

It’s a once in a lifetime kind of offer. Three years, more money than she’s made at the club level before. And the promise of a comparable deal for Christen if she decides to play after the baby is born. 

A few years ago, it wouldn’t have been possible. 

A year ago, even, she would have been locked into her deal at the NWSL, required to play domestically in order to compete on the national team. But everything is different now–new coach, new contracts, a whole new world. 

They talk about it. Or, Tobin tries to. But Christen seems to think it’s a done deal, and starts putting together a list of all the things they’ll need to do to make it happen. Movers and property managers and a whole bunch of things that give Tobin a headache to even think about.

“Listen,” Tobin tugs the younger woman into her arms, warmth filling her the way it always does as she feels the bump of their baby against her body, “I haven’t said yes yet. They want me to come over to tour the facilities and meet everyone.” 

Christen slows her train of thought, the mental list she’s had running ever since her wife brought up the offer, and looks at the other woman, really looks at her. 

“Do you want to do this?” she asks, pressing their cheeks together, swaying with the woman she loves. “Because if you don’t, then we don’t. Okay–” 

But Tobin cuts her off with a kiss. 

“It’s just different,” she answers softly. “Different than how we talked about the next few years looking. It would mean being overseas for the first couple of years … “

Tobin’s hand rubs soft circles over the bump of their child, feels the press of a tiny limb against her palm. “It’s a big decision.” 

But Christen smiles, and kisses her deeply, fingers stroking her wife’s cheek. 

“But you want it,” she whispers, her lips tracing the strong line of Tobin’s jaw. “You won’t say it because you’re afraid of what it means, because you’re afraid it’ll change things. But you want it, here.” And her hand comes to rest over the older woman’s breast, just over her heart.

Tobin’s breath catches in her throat as she hesitates. Because Chris is right. Chris is right about it all. She does want it, this chance to conquer this new chapter of her career, to forge this new direction in their lives. 

Christen doesn’t make her say it, doesn’t need to hear the words. The way her wife sinks against her in the dying light of just another Wednesday afternoon along the California coast is enough. The way Tobin nods, barely perceptible against her shoulder is enough to know that there isn’t any decision to make at all. 

There never was. 

“Tell them to schedule a time for us to visit,” Chris whispers against the other woman’s ear, smiling to herself. “We’ll fly out and you can tour everything, see how you feel. And if it feels right, sign right then and there.” 

The room is quiet for a moment, just the two–no, three–just the three of them dancing together to the rhythm of the silence before Tobin breaks it. 

“I love you,” she whispers, and Christen just nods and kisses over her hair. 

She knows that too. 

—–

It’s a testament to how much Chelsea wants the Heath name in their Starting XI that they make all the arrangements, and including first class seats for them on a cross-country flight to Newark, and then a private team plane ready for them for the Atlantic leg of their journey. 

And so, just week after the decision to check out the offer in the living room and they’re on their way, spurred by Christen’s insistence that she come along on the trip and her steadily advancing pregnancy. Their OB-GYN had cleared Chris for the flights there and back, but agreed, the trip should be made as soon as possible. 

“It won’t be comfortable,” Dr. Jen had told them, “but I don’t see any reason to ground you.” Still, Tobin had asked question after question until she was satisfied that her wife and their child could safely travel, ignoring Chris’s insistence that everything would be fine and to let the busy doctor move on to her next patients. 

But Tobin had asked every question she could think of, brought up every fear and worry of what could go wrong, until there was nothing left to ask and no reason to ask Christen to reconsider.

Now, though, watching as Chris returns from her latest trip to the bathroom, she wonders if she should have insisted on going alone. 

“God,” the pregnant woman groans as she sits next to her wife in the plush seat of the private plane, “I haven’t felt this gross since–”

“Week ten,” Tobin nods, anticipating Christen’s words even as she reaches across for the belt to buckle her two loves in. “That was a rough one.” 

She slips a hand behind the grimacing woman and rubs soft, wide circles over her back, hoping the touch will soothe away the nausea as it did way back then, when this pregnancy was still so new.

“I did bring some of those candy ginger things,” Tobin stood and retrieved her carry-on, digging through the pockets until she found the package, but Chris shook her head. 

“Just keep doing what you were,” she said softly, leaning back into Tobin when the other woman sat back down. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a bit.” 

And the midfielder smiled softly. “Even better,” she whispered, and wrapped her arm around the other woman, waving away the flight attendant who’d first welcomed them onto the plane. “Just close your eyes, I’ve got you.” 

—–

They don’t make it to their tour. 

Well, Tobin does. 

Alone. 

Just under a full month from the original date. 

—–

It happens in an instant, in the blink of an eye. 

They arrive and are escorted through all of the usual airport rigmarole before being taken to the kind of hotel where the bellboys–bell-people–wear finely pressed uniforms and white gloves,and little hats that make Tobin grin every time she sees them. Up in their suite they find a gift basket from the team awaiting them, overflowing with fine cheeses, jars of jams and caviar, and a bottle of sparkling cider that makes Tobin smile. 

“Look,” she holds it out, “no champagne for my baby-mama.” And Christen laughs even as she rolls her eyes, watching as the young man who’d brought up their bags twirls open the heavy blinds to reveal the city beyond. 

“You hungry?” she whispers once they’ve tipped him and they’re alone again, coming up behind Christen to hug her, to rest her hands against her wife’s swollen belly and feel the way it moves under her touch.

But the other woman just shakes her head. “Just a little tired,” Chris leans back into her, letting her wife support her as they stand and look out over the afternoon bustle of one of the greatest cities in the world. 

Eventually, Tobin kisses her shoulder and steps back. “I think tonight we just relax,” she squeezes Chris’s hand, “because tomorrow will be pretty busy. How about I order some food? Something light if your stomach is still upset?” 

And Christen nods, turning her head just the slightest to look back at her wife, lit from behind by the setting sun. “You take such good care of us,” she whispers, and returns the gentle squeeze.

Chris turned, and kissed her softly. “I’m going to take a shower, clean the airplane air off me while you call, yeah?” And she let her fingers trail over Tobin’s back as she headed toward the large, bright bathroom. 

—–

There’s a thud. 

A thud and a cry. 

And without thinking, Tobin drops the pair of sweats she was busy pulling out of their bag and runs for the bathroom. 

“I slipped,” Chris says, her voice pained, when Tobin finds her in the large bathtub. “I was stepping in and I–” but her voice fades off as her wife kneels down next to her. 

Tobin’s hands are already feeling over her, checking for any injuries. “Let’s get you up–careful, careful–” she says softly, cautiously. And slowly, she helps her wife up.

But one step – two – and Christen folds in on herself, a hand coming up over her belly. “Something’s wrong,” she says, and there are tears rolling, falling down her cheeks as she crumples to the floor. 

And Tobin begins to panic. 

And then she sees the puddle, and everything stops.

—–

When it’s all over–

When Christen is sleeping, pale and weak but safe and stable–

When the choices and decisions have been made and Tobin can finally sit for a moment and just try to remember how to breath, it hits her.

She has a son. 

They have a son. 

He’s really and truly here. 

Early, and tiny, and not out of the woods yet but here.

Tobin kisses her wife’s forehead and whispers her love, telling her that she’ll be right back, she’s just going to check on their son. 

—–

“Jonah,” Christen whispers, leaning forward in her wheelchair and peering into the warm, safe incubator where he’s asleep on his belly, naked but for the soft knit cap over his little head and the tiniest diaper she’s ever seen. 

Tobin hovers behind her, rubbing over her wife’s back as she meets their son. “He’s doing okay,” she reassures Chris, “the nurses all say so.” But she knows, and she knows that Chris does as well, that the road ahead of them is long, and hard. 

Still, she smiles to herself as a nurse helps her to lift him up and out of his safe little box. “You can’t see it in the pictures I showed you,” Tobin whispers as she watches her wife unbutton her shirt, and carefully lowers boy to rest against his mother’s bare chest, “but he looks just like you. Just like you.” And she trails a finger over his cheek before rebuttoning Christen’s shirt for her, their little boy tucked safe right over her heart.

And she would have stepped back, just enough to watch them together, but Chris took her hand. 

“I’m–I’m sorry,” she whispered, eyes wet. But Tobin shakes her head, and caresses her jaw with those strong, steady hands that Christen loves so much. 

She kneels before her wife, her son, and looks up into Chris’s eyes. “It was an accident–not your fault, not anyone’s. Just an accident.”

And it takes a moment, but Christen nods, eyes wet. 

“On the plus side,” she gave Tobin a shy smile, “he’s probably got a better chance at a World Cup now.” 

And Tobin just looks at her for a long, long moment. And begins to laugh. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt**   
>  _I’d love a little follow-up to “Love a London Boy”!_

Jonah takes his first steps in the thick green grass of Home Park, an afternoon picnic under the one of the majestic oaks on a rare day with no training and or other team responsibilities. He takes his first steps—two, unsteady and unsure, but unmistakable—and Tobin thinks her heart might just crack in two with pride and love.

"Yay, Jonah," Christen claps excitedly from where she sits at the other end of their favorite picnic blanket, where she'd been holding out her hands for their son to grip tightly until he just let go and wobbled forward toward Tobin, toward his favorite person in the world, his ma. "Look at you go!" her wife cheers their son on, and even though it's just two steps before he plops, proudly, onto the blanket between them, it's so close to a miracle that Tobin sends up a wordless grateful prayer into the clear blue sky above.

Just the latest in the thousands of prayers she's offered up since the beginning, since this boy was nothing more than a hope and a dream in their hearts.

 _Thank you, Lord,_ her heart whispers, _for this beautiful life, this woman and this boy._

\-----

His name was supposed to be Max. Maxwell Christopher Heath, a compromise of sorts, because Tobin had wanted him to be a Press. And Christen hadn't wanted him named for her. But by the time they'd settled on the name, they'd both loved it, the way it rolled off their tongues. The way they could imagine themselves calling after their son, his name echoing into the dying summer light of their backyard, their Max.

But it hadn't fit when he was born, too tiny and too early. This little boy with his birth-bruised skin, the slightly alien look of him in the incubator, wires and tubes and soft bandages covering almost every corner of his body.

The name had come to her as she stood, looking down at this newest piece of her heart there, so small and delicate and perfect. Like a whisper of something divine, and she knew.

Jonah.

Jonah, who ran from God's commands.

Jonah, who learns that there is no running from God's plans.

Jonah, who teaches us that there is no limit to God's compassion.

And Nathaniel.

Because what else was this boy but a gift from God.

\-----

It would be a lie to say that the first year as a family of three was perfect. And maybe they'd been a little too naïve as they'd first started dreaming of it all, blinded by the picture perfect glimpses of parenthood on Instagram and college roommate group chats. But nothing—nothing at all—could have prepared them for how absolutely exhausting, painful ... hard ... it had been.

And still, there had been so many beautiful, precious miracles to ease their travels along the difficult road, little pockets of good news, perfect moments to carry into the scary ones, the ones that kept them awake.

And always, there was each other, and Jonah.

Born at 30 weeks, the doctors told them, wasn't an ideal start for their son, but the numbers were on their side. Ninety-five percent of preemies born at that stage would survive, and Jonah, they were told, was in the upper half of those estimates. Strong, responding well to their interventions.

"An iron will," one of the night nurses had commented to Tobin one evening as she held him close to her heart, feeling his tiny feet stretch and kick against her abs.

Tobin had smiled, lowering her head to kiss his little mess of dark hair. "Just like his mama," she'd whispered.

\-----

Jonah snores like a freight train when he sleeps, and it's the cutest thing Tobin has ever heard. Right now, she's wearing him in the baby carrier, and he's slumped forward so that his head rests on her shoulder, drooling onto her soft cotton tee while they walk through the park as the afternoon bleeds into the early evening.

"He look cold?" she asks softly, one hand firm under him like always, supporting his weight, just in case—just in case—and the other folded gently into her wife's.

Christen slows for a moment, looking over them both before focusing on their son, whose dark curls are loose and blowing just the slightest in the wind. "I think he's good," she decides, smiling as she brushes a lock back from his temple, mentally filing away a note to schedule his first haircut, even though she knows she likely won't in the end, not quite willing to say goodbye to his soft baby hair.

"But just in case," she reaches into the diaper bag slung over her shoulder and pulls out a blanket, covering Jonah carefully before snapping the ends to the straps of the carrier so it won't fall off, leaning in to kiss his cheek, and then her wife's, before taking her hand again as they continue their leisurely walk home.

And the whole way, the rhythm of their steps syncs in time to the beat of Tobin’s heart, the steady patter of the prayer in her head, on her lips, in her heart. 

_Thank you, Lord, for my miracles._

**Author's Note:**

> "London Boy," Taylor Swift


End file.
